


break before we shine

by Skyuni123



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Angst, Bigotry & Prejudice, Boys Kissing, Depression, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Suicide attempt, M/M, Post-Railroad Ending, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Redemption, Rough Kissing, Suicidal Thoughts, danse's bigotry gets a smack in the face, survivor's guilt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-01
Updated: 2018-11-13
Packaged: 2019-04-16 17:57:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14170404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skyuni123/pseuds/Skyuni123
Summary: Two broken men, in a broken world, post the end of the Brotherhood and the Institute.-In which Danse's bigotry gets a smack in the face, we all do some healing, and everyone learns some things.





	1. Chapter 1

After all is said and done (and two warring factions have been resoundingly  _ blown up _ ), Jack decides on a holiday.

A long, well-deserved holiday, far from the chaos of Diamond City, the Institute crater, the remains of the Prydwen -

 

Nordhagen Beach isn’t actually that far from the still-burning wreckage of the Prydwen, but if he sits on the porch of his newly-constructed shack he can see out towards Nahant and Libertalia, rather than towards the airport.

Sometimes it’s better to ignore things. Dealing with them takes too much effort. 

 

He’s the kind of man that grieves, and grieves  _ hard, _ but he’s all cried out. Tiredness settles into his bones like a permanent companion and he’s never felt quite so old before. War never changes and battles never cease. There’s always something new on the horizon, he’s just got to be ready for it.

 

Nick stays with him, claiming that, “his old joints need a bit of R&R,” but Jack knows that he’s really just doing it to be kind.

Although he knows that Nick disapproves of him wiping out the Brotherhood, it’s still nice. 

It’s probably best that there’s someone there to stop him from ending it all, anyway.  

 

Piper and Preston make occasional trips - from Diamond City and the Castle, respectively - all brimming with tales of the new world. 

 

“We’re finding new homes for more and more synth refugees every day.” Preston tells him, somehow madly excited and wholeheartedly sorrowful about the whole thing. “People don’t know that they’re synths, of course, but they’re still making new lives.”

 

Piper tells him about the loudness in the capital, how everyone is still hyped-up over the destruction of the Institute and the disappearance of the ‘Sole Survivor’ - as they’re calling him now. She persuades him to do an interview, whining something like, “If you let me quote you, they’ll get off your back. And mine.” 

So he does. It’s not his best, he’s been more verbose at the most unlikely of times, but he’s just so goddamn tired. Piper heads back to the city with a smile and a wave - she’s gotten what she came for and now he can sleep. 

 

That’s all that matters. 

 

Hancock and Cait stop by sometimes, too. The pair are thick as thieves, despite Cait’s lack of a drug addiction and Hancock’s utter reliance on his vices. Perhaps their similarities are in the roughness, the strength around the edges, or perhaps they’re both just giant pervs. 

 

Jack’s just there to sit, to space out for hours on end, to sleep. He’s been doing that a lot lately, amongst the planting of tatos, the fixing of turrets and far too much Calmex. 

Sometimes he jerks awake in the middle of the night to the sound of screams, and he can only settle back down when he realises that they’re all in his head. The Commonwealth is a lot louder than Pre-War Boston, and that’s not just because of the ambient noise.

Dogmeat helps, of course. That dog’s an absolute godsend, knowing exactly when to settle down beside him, and to climb onto his lap to bring him back whenever his head gets too bad. 

 

It all changes one foggy morning. He’s on his porch with some warm razorgrain porridge (preserved mutfruit to taste) when he sees a large figure striding out of the fog.

 

It’s coming from  _ Fort Strong. _

Fort Strong, where he, Nick and Hancock had wiped out all of those mutants, so long ago. Could he have missed one?

 

He squints, wishing that he’d been able to find a pair of glasses in this hellhole with the correct prescription, and freezes.

 

No. 

 

Is that  _ Brotherhood  _ power armour?

It can’t be. The Brotherhood’s dead. All of them. He’d killed them all. 

But it is.

 

_ Shit.  _ Is this his penance? Is the Brotherhood finally coming to claim him for all that he’s done? Is this even real?

 

Jack grips his hands into Dogmeat’s hair, feeling the strength behind the softness. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know if his brain’s making him see things again, or if it’s actually real. He can’t move. He can’t reach for a weapon. He can’t-

“Nick?!” Someone yells, a strangled gasp, and it takes him a moment to realise that it’s him speaking. 

 

Nick comes out of the shack, wrench in hand. “Head botherin’ you again, doll?” 

 

But then his eyes widen and he  _ notices  _ the power-armoured figure.

 

It’s real. The Brotherhood person is  _ real.  _ Nick can see them too.

 

Fuck.

 

“You stay here.” Nick murmurs, and fetches a shotgun from inside the shack. “I’ll take the dog.”

He practically has to drag Dogmeat away, seemingly not noticing how much Jack is unravelling at the seams. 

 

The Brotherhood figure approaches the turrets, and they don’t go off.  _ Strange.  _ Usually they’d have shot a Brotherhood person on sight. They should have shot the Brotherhood person on sight. 

 

Nick approaches him, obviously wary, but he’s stopped when the figure freezes, stumbles, and collapses to his knees.

He holds there for a minute, strain obvious in his stature, but then falls flat on his face.

 

Nick waves Dogmeat forward, and the mutt sniffs around the body, whines, and then obviously decides it’s fine, because he plops down next to the suit and lays his head on the helmet of it.

 

“I might need your help with this one, Jack!” Nick yells back at him.

Of course he does. For all that Nick is to to the Commonwealth, he’s not superhuman. No-one, shy of a super-mutant, could carry someone in power armour. 

 

Jack stands up, legs shaky, and stumbles off across the sand. He’s just going to ignore it. It’s fine. Everything’s fine. He’s not falling apart at all. The return of the Brotherhood doesn’t terrify him to his core or anything.

 

Brotherhood’s suit is ruined. There’s several claw marks running down the center of it, like the occupant’s been swiped at by a deathclaw and narrowly escaped, as well as thick patches of rust coating the thin edges. There’s not even a fusion core slotted into the back. 

 

“Think he’s dead?” Jack asks, kneeling down next to Nick.

 

“No. Just exhausted.” Nick withdraws two fingers from underneath the ragged helmet plates. “Still breathing, thready pulse. Will probably be alright if we get them out of this thing.”

 

“You know how much the Brotherhood likes to be forcibly removed from their power armour.” Jack says, ruefully, because he’s speaking from experience. 

 

“Do you really want to try carrying him with that thing on?” 

 

“Nah.” Jack fiddles around inside the left gauntlet of the armour for the panel release.

There’s not even enough juice left in the suit for it to spring open. They have to manually pull the pieces off, one at a time, and draw the occupant out from within. 

They leave the suit there on the sand, because what else can they do with it? It’s so destroyed that only months of work would fix it up, and Jack’s not setting foot near a suit of power armour every again.

 

It’s only when they get the man inside that they’re able to see his face. He’s a brunette, heavily bearded and thoroughly scarred. It’s like he’s been fighting for a long time.

Quite like Jack, actually, except he’s ginger and thick patches of freckles cover every inch of his exposed skin, rather than scars.

 

“I don’t know about you, doll, but this doesn’t make me feel mighty comfortable.” Nick muses, looking down at the soldier with a frown.

 

He’s basically echoing what’s going on inside Jack’s skull, except he’s doing it a whole lot more politely than Jack is. “You’re feeling pretty fuckin’ uneasy? I got that, too, Nicky.” 

Try all he might, though, he’s not just going to throw an injured man out into the wilds. He owes the Brotherhood that much, despite the fact that they’re a bunch of bastards.

 

“You’re always so articulate.” Nick says, dryly, and reaches into the box where they keep their medical supplies. “Think we’ll need a stimpack?”

 

The stranger doesn’t look too banged up. His orange jumpsuit’s a bit bloody, yeah, but everyone in the Commonwealth is a bit bloody most of the time. There’s a few nasty looking scrapes around his extremities - probably from the broken power armour, but there’s really nothing a stimpack could fix. “No. Slap a few bandages on him and we’ll call it a day.”

 

Nick nods, but Jack doubts he’s even listening. The synth has a wealth of experience that Jack just doesn’t have, but he knows he’ll make the right call.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Time passes. The soldier’s wounds heal, but he doesn’t wake. 

 

It’s nearly two days of feeding him nutrient soup intravenously (having Railroad contacts can be useful sometimes), and watching him breathe when he finally jerks back into consciousness, eyes fluttering wildly. 

It’s the middle of the night. Jack’s only awake because sleeping’s a real rare thing nowadays, and Nick’s off down the other end of the settlement, tinkering with something.

Dogmeat’s sleeping in the corner, because Dogmeat’s real good at that. 

 

“Mornin’, sunshine.” Jack drones, because despite everything, the Brotherhood are  _ assholes,  _ and he can mess with this guy if he wishes.

 

The guy blinks, obviously very confused.

 

_ Whoa,  _ he’s got nice eyes. 

Also, whoa, that’s the first thing Jack’s felt out of his libido in months.

Not the time.

 

“You’re at Nordhagen. Probably a bit sore, considering the state of your power armour. Also, you’re not dead.” 

 

The man’s eyelids flutter again and he gazes off into the distance, bleary-eyed. “Fuck.” 

 

“Please tell me you’re not suicidal too.” Jack groans, only half-joking. “Nick’s circuits would blow if he had to deal with more than one of us.”

 

“You have a… robot... here, citizen?” The man’s voice is nice, too. Deep, raspy with underuse. It’s unfortunate that his voice wavered so much on the word ‘robot’. 

 

Stinks of bigotry.

 

It’s a shame, really. Jack could have happily spent a whole lotta time lost in that face, but he’s not gonna take that kinda shit lying down. “Prototype second gen synth, actually. And before you start moving -”

 

He doesn’t quite catch the man before he tries to sit up, then gasps in pain and lies back down.

 

“-before you break any more of your ribs -” During his more thorough examination Nick had found that the stranger probably had some broken bones too, “I’m not going to take any of your bullshit lying down. If you even try to lay a finger on one of my friends, I’ll blast you back to the ruins of your airship.”

 

It doesn’t feel good speaking like this, but it’s got to be done. He’d lost enough friends during the battle because of the Brotherhood’s xenophobia, and he’s not going to lose any more. He  _ loathes  _ them, but he’s not going to kill without a reason. 

 

The man slumps back, wheezing slightly. It’s like all of the fight has gone out of him, if it was even there to begin with. “Fine.”

 

“Good.” Jack sits back in his chair. He knows that he’s not defused the situation - he’d never been able to talk the Brotherhood out of anything - but the man doesn’t feel like a direct threat at the present moment. “What’s your name?”

 

“Pala- Danse.” The man grunts, the whole movement making him look wounded and regretful. “Just Danse.”

 

“Danse. That your first or your last?”

 

“Does anyone have a last name out here?”

 

“Point.” That’s true. Jack doesn’t know if the vault addled his mind or whatever, but he’s never been able to recall his. “I’m Jack.”

 

He supposes it’s a testament to his espionage skills that Danse doesn’t recognise the name. Or his face, come to think about it. He’d been in Publick Occurrences and other Commonwealth publications enough during the battle for people to recognise him by name alone. Hopefully the Brotherhood had never been that interested in gossip mags.

 

(‘Cryogenic Vault Survivor Sleeping with Diamond City’s Star Detective - Read all about it!’)

_ Ridiculous. _

 

He doesn’t need this survivor - this _stranger_ - to know that he destroyed the Brotherhood. Brotherhood soldiers are loyal to a fault, and he’s sure that this man would chase him to the ends of the earth to wrought his revenge for his fallen siblings.

 

“How long was I unconscious, citizen?”

 

“None of that.” Jack replies, because he’s not been anything as simple as a ‘citizen’ for years. “Call me Jack. And two days. Nearly.” 

 

“Two days. Understandable. I will stop encroaching on your hospitality, then.” He struggles to stand, but his wounded gasp is even more vicious this time. 

 

“For fuck’s sake, man, I’m a wastelander, not a barbarian. If you go wandering off into the city now you’ll die in minutes.” Jack doesn’t have to be a doctor to know that Danse is unwell. It’s not just a physical thing, either. 

 

Everyone in the wasteland is a little bit broken, but it’s obvious that Danse is more broken than most.

 

Losing everything that you call home does that to a man. Jack’s seen his fair share of violence and has created enough of his own, but he’s not cruel. Everything he’s done has been for the greater good.

He’s not going to let another person die just because he hates everything he believes in. 

He’s not that kind of man.

 

“You want some Med-X?” Jack asks, before he can stop himself. “It’ll stop ya wanting to rip your ribs out of your chest.”

 

“Do you know that from experience?” Danse shuffles about on the bed, clearly trying to get comfortable in a world of pain.

 

“Who’s lived in this world and not broken a few bones?” He doesn’t need to mention that he’d broken his ribs in the concussion blast from the Prydwen crashing into the ground. 

 

“I will take the Med-X.” Danse decides, “If that does not disadvantage any hu- any  _ citizen _ in this settlement.” 

 

Jack fights the urge to roll his eyes.  _ God, what an asshole. _

But he gets the Med-X anyway. 


	3. Chapter 3

“You going to tell him that you blew up the Brotherhood?” Nick asks, eying Danse with something very close to wariness.

 

“Nope.”

 

“Don’t you think that hiding the truth from him is a bad idea?” 

 

“Yep.” 

 

“Are you going to be obstreperous all day?”

 

“Probably!” Jack replies. It’s pitched about an octave too high and sounds panicked, but neither of them comment on it. “I don’t think he ever needs to know that I killed his entire faction in cold blood.”

 

“Alternatively,” Nick postures, “If you tell him now he’s probably not strong enough to kill  _ you  _ in cold blood.”

 

“Probably.” Jack stares off across the beach. “But I do kinda deserve it.”

Danse is staring out at the remains of Boston Airport, seemingly lost in thought. 

 

“Yes, you do.” Nick grasps him on the shoulder with his metal hand, not pressing in, exactly, but just letting him know he’s there. “But I’m still not going to let it happen when the time comes.” 

And with that damning sentence, he’s up and heading back off along the sand towards the workshop, humming thoughtfully under his breath.

 

Well, it’s obvious that Nick’s going to be absolutely no help. Jack’s going to have to deal with this all on his own. 

Honestly, the synth is unbelievably petty. He’s more petty than most of the humans Jack’s encountered in the wasteland. It’s (usually) part of his charm.

  
  


Jack snags two bottles of Nuka-Cola Dark from the junky fridge they have wired up and wanders over to Danse. It’s late enough in the day to drink, and the sun’s nearly gone down, so technically it’s not alcoholism. Plus, considering Danse just woke up that morning, he’s probably fucked up enough to use a drink right now.

 

“You drink?” He asks, holding one of the bottles out to the other man. “It’s probably not that irradiated.”

 

Danse looks at him for a long moment, consideringly, “...Yes. I do.” and he takes the bottle, even though it doesn’t really look like he knows what to do with it. 

 

“Good.” Jack leads him across to a bench that’s been designed for this exact purpose and sits down. “Come. Sit.”

He’s not sure why he’s being so obliging. The Brotherhood was a pain in the ass during the battle…

But he kinda feels sorry for this guy.

 

“Thank you.” Danse replies, stiffly, good etiquette clearly forcing him to say it. He cracks open the Nuka-Cola Dark and takes a swig, obviously rather disgusted.

 

“Not been drinking for a while, I take it?”

 

“The Brotherhood doesn’t look kindly upon vices.”

 

Jack can’t help but chuckle. “God, we live in an absolute shithole of a world and you’re not allowed to drink to forget? I’m  _ so  _ glad I didn’t join you guys.”

 

It’s obvious that his words rattle Danse, so much so that the other man says, “It is highly unlikely that you would have been accepted.”

 

“I served in the military for seven years before the Great War, Danse, but continue to pre-judge me if you want.” He winces, the words spilling out before he can make them stop.  _ Fuck.  _ If he’s trying to keep his identity safe from Danse, he’s doing a really shit job.

 

Danse stops in his tracks, seemingly utterly rooted to the seat. He ventures, “you’re a synth, then?”

 

“Nope. Not a pretty-looking ghoul either. I’m just very lucky.” 

 

“Then how?”

 

“Vault-Tec was conducting some pretty nefarious experiments before the War. Science is my mistress and I am her… bitch.” He doesn’t exactly need to go into what said experiments  _ were,  _ and hopefully Danse doesn’t know too much about some of the vaults. “I’m not a synth, though. Cut open my head and it’ll be brain right through. I’d really prefer if you didn’t do that, though.”

 

“That makes one of us.” The other man swigs more of his Dark, still visibly disgusted by it.

 

“You’re a synth?” Jack gasps, truly stunned for the first time since Danse’s arrival out of the fog. “But you’re… Brotherhood?”

 

“I was Brotherhood.” Danse’s eyes harden and he clenches his jaw. “I found out I was a synth as soon as they did, and I ran. It was cowardly. I never should have done it. That’s why I wasn’t on the Prydwen when it fell.”

 

“...and you believe you should have been?”

 

“Would it have been honourable to die by the side of my brothers and sisters? Absolutely.” Danse heaves a heavy sigh, voice getting even raspier, “But did I want to be crushed under the burning wreck of the Prydwen after they’d all tried to kill me? …no.”

 

Oh. So he’s  _ guilty.  _ He wishes he’d died with the Brotherhood, but at the same time, he’s disgusted at how they treated him. “Survivor’s guilt, huh? I gotcha.” He lets his hand rest on Danse’s forearm, not really a come-on, more of a reminder. The other man tenses up, just for a moment, but he doesn’t pull away. “Y’know, bud, you sure are telling me a lot about yourself considering we only met a couple days back.”

_ God,  _ is the man  _ all  _ muscle? His arm’s rock solid.

That means a lot to Jack, considering he’s spent the last six or so months swinging baseball bats at mutants for profit. Muscle is something he’s pretty well acquainted with.

Even so.

 

“You try spending three months with only the corpses of abominations for company. See how your mind fares.”

 

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Jack toasts him with the Nuka-Cola bottle and then tips it back, sculling half of it in one go.

 

There’s a certain kind of pleasure in seeing how Danse reacts.

 

His eyes widen, only slightly, but it’s clear that he notices. Poor guy. Three months alone in a ruin? Dude’s probably become pretty well acquainted with his right hand.

Jack swallows, and swipes his thumb over his lower lip, licking away the last of the drink. It’s sweet and fizzy, but with a richness that the usual Nuka-Cola just doesn’t have. A couple of these and he’d be out for the count.

 

He comes back to earth and sees Danse watching him, eyes diluted and dark even in the growing dusk. 

 

Hook, line and sinker.

The guy’s a dick, that much is obvious, but honestly? He wouldn’t say no. 

 

“Feeling alright, ...sir?” Jack teases, because although he tries to be a decent guy most of the time, really he’s just an utter,  _ utter  _ shit at heart. Winding Danse up feels better than anything he’s done in months.

 

“I-um-” Danse clears his throat and shifts uncomfortably in the dark. “I think I will head to my quarters, now. Thank you for the conversation, Jack.”

 

He pulls away at a rate of knots, shuffling through the dark awkwardly, and leaves his half-drunk bottle of Dark sitting on the bench behind him. 

 

“I don’t believe that man’s been laid in months.” Jack ponders, and raises his own bottle to him.

 

Well, he’s always liked a challenge. Even if that challenge is a bit of a xenophobe, a total ass, and far too militaristic for his own good.

  
  


“Are you causing trouble, Jake?” Nick’s managed to sneak up on him, not for the first time, and it nearly gives him a heart attack.

 

“Depends on what ‘causing trouble’ means, Nicky.” 

 

“Please don’t kill each other when I’m gone.” 

 

“When you’re gone?” Jack turns around and can just see in the sliver of daylight that’s left that Val’s dressed for travelling. “Where are you going?”

 

“Ellie radioed in. Trouble in the city. Paul Pembroke’s gone missing, his family’s asking for my help to get him back.”

 

“I should come-” Jack starts to pull himself to his feet, but Val stops him. 

 

“No, you stay with our…  _ guest.”  _ Nick still doesn’t seem particularly happy to be saying those words. “You two could be good for each other.”

  
“Even though he’s a xenophobic fascist and I’m a cold-blooded murderer?”

 

“Even so.” 

 

Nick tousles his hair and bids him goodbye. “Try not to die while I’m gone.” 

 

“Can’t make any promises, though the same to you, Nicky!”

 

Alone in his settlement with the one guy who would murder him if he found out the truth. Awesome. There’s no way this can go wrong. 

 


	4. Chapter 4

Jack finishes off both bottles of Nuka Dark before he goes to bed, and manages to sleep four hours without dreaming, alcohol dulling his senses and calming him enough to keep the nightmares at bay.

 

That is, of course, when the screaming starts.

 

It’s less of a scream, more of a panicked, violent gasp, but it’s loud enough to wake him up.

 

He’s got a hand on his 10mm and an arm around Dogmeat when he realises.

 

The screaming hasn’t stopped. And he’s  _ awake.  _ It’s not all in his head. It’s  _ real. _

 

_ Danse. _

 

Fuck’s sake, he knew that accepting another soldier into his settlement was a bad idea.

 

“Stay, boy.” He tells Dogmeat, who whines sadly but stays put. Then he rolls out of bed. The turrets haven’t deployed, so it’s not a raid. Somehow he feels like what he’s going to be dealing with will be worse.

 

It’s probably just Danse, trapped in his own head.

He knows the feeling.

 

Not bothering to put on a shirt, he vaults the edge of his porch and lands heavily in the sand below. It’s dark out, and cool, but across the fringes of the city he can see little lights twinkling.

 

It’s nice, aside from the heavy breathing and panicked noises of his new acquaintance losing his shit. 

 

The guest cabin at Nordhagen is nothing more than four scrap walls and a bright white door, but he can hear Danse freaking the fuck out behind it all the same.

 

He hammers on the door. “Danse?”

 

Nothing. And yet, the sounds continue. They’re not good sounds.

 

_ Shit.  _ If he gets jumped as soon as he opens the door, he’ll be pissed. He knows what it’s like to be a veteran, to suffer from trauma, to have to sleep with a pistol under his pillow. He could just let him sleep it off...

However, the other man seems like he’s in a fair amount of distress.

 

Jack’s an ass, but he’s not completely heartless. Guess he’ll have to do it.

 

He curls a hand around the doorknob and pushes the door open. 

 

Danse is a  _ sight  _ in the warm light of the room’s lantern. Shirtless, all warm and hard skin. The faint layer of sweat covering his chest makes him positively  _ glisten. _

 

Now is resoundingly not the time, though, because he’s clearly having a nightmare. Judging by his thrashing and grunting, it’s a pretty bad one too. 

 

Jack’s pretty sure he’s about to get battered in the face by a confused soldier, but he approaches the bed anyway and steels himself. “Danse?!”

 

Still nothing. Guess there’s only one thing he can do. He reaches out and taps his fingers on Danse’s bicep.

 

Before he can even process it, he’s flat on his back on the ground, pain splintering through his chest, with an angry Brotherhood soldier kneeling over him.

 

Yeah, this was a bad idea. 

 

Fucking  _ ow.  _ Getting the wind knocked out of him still hurts. He looks up, noticing that Danse doesn’t even look properly awake yet, and groans. “You’re... gonna hurt... your r-r-ribs... even more if you k-keep... this up.” He struggles to move and realises that Danse’s got hold of his wrists as well.

 

“Fuck’s…. sake, m-man, move!” He shoves upwards with one of his shoulders but it does nothing to free him from his struggle. Danse is  _ heavy. _

 

Wow, he really hopes this isn’t a murder attempt. He’s really not in the mood. “Danse?”

 

For a second it looks like he’s not even present.

 

But then his jaw unclenches, his eyes seem to lose their glint, and he shudders, sinking forward onto the heels of his hands. 

 

Which are unfortunately pressing Jack’s own into the floor. Yeah, it hurts.

 

Their faces are very close and the other man’s body is very warm. Jack would like nothing more to reach up and steal a kiss off those lips, but he notices how Danse’s eyes are fluttering. No. It’s not right. Not now. The pair of them both need to go to bed, sleep this off, think some things through.

 

“Much as I’d like this to continue,” He drawls, “‘s probably best that we wait till at least one of us is properly conscious.”

 

Danse shakes his head about, huffing, and then everything  _ finally  _ seems to clear. “Shit. Uh. Sorry.” He rolls off Jack and collapses on the floor next to him, breathing heavily. “I apologise for my lack of decorum. I don’t know-”

 

“It’s no problem.” Jack rubs his wrists, marvelling at the thick lines of welts already rising to the surface. They don’t hurt, exactly, but they do sting a bit. “Jeez, man, with power like that you could strangle a brahmin barehanded.”

 

“Did I do that?” Danse seems oddly sorrowful, and takes one of his hands in his own, twisting it about so he can see the welts in the lantern light. “Apologies. Again. I didn’t know-”

 

“Your brain’s futzing about in your head, trying to sort things out. Don’t worry.” Jack pulls his wrist back from the man, ignoring how soothing his touch had felt on the welts. “You had a nightmare, I woke you up, and your head thought that I was an enemy. We had a little tussle, but everything’s cool. You won’t be jumping at shadows in a few weeks.”

 

Danse doesn’t say anything, and just nods, staring at the floor.

 

“My work here is done.” Jack starts to drag himself to his feet, already ready to get back into his nice, warm bed and let the sound of the waves and the rattle of the turrets pull him back to sleep. “Go back to bed, Danse. The nightmares aren’t real.”

 

It’s too simplistic a term to put on it. They’re not nightmares, they’re closer to hallucinations, bore from the darkest reaches of the mind. 

 

Danse grasps him by the bicep and stops him in his tracks. The grip isn’t threatening, but Jack can feel the raw power behind it all the same.

 

In truth, he’s actually kinda into it.

 

“Danse?” He asks, really hoping that this is a conscious action and not just Danse regressing into his head once more. 

 

“Thank you, Jack. I mean it.” Danse says, holding his gaze in a way that makes him think of dark nights, shared quarters, and the promise of something more.

 

The throb in the pit of his stomach grows even warmer from that look.

 

Fuck. He’s fucked. 

 


	5. Chapter 5

Swimming isn’t exactly a  _ good  _ idea in the Commonwealth, but Jack does it all the same. After so long wandering about the wastes dealing with radiation (and taking far too many trips into the Glowing Sea), it’s basically lost its sting. Pop a couple Rad-x and he’ll be good for days.

 

Danse, however, doesn’t know that.

 

Jack’s in the middle of scrubbing his back - those settled on Spectacle Island have made a  _ great  _ trade in selling seaweed-based soap - and staring out towards Nahant, when he’s grasped thoroughly from behind and dragged out of the sea. 

 

God.

 

Ow.

 

Fuck.

 

What?

 

He scrabbles around, totally butt naked, to see Danse dragging him out of the water at a rate of knots. He’s not in his power armour, because frankly, that’s still fucked and it’s going to be fucked for quite a while too, so he’s getting the full brunt of the radiation from the water.

 

Idiot. 

 

Why’s Jack letting this guy hang around, again?

 

Oh yeah, cause he’s hot.

 

(That’s not the only reason, but it is one of them.)

  
  


Danse deposits him on the sand, right next to the corpse of a dead Mirelurk. It feels a little bit like penance.

 

“What,” Danse starts, looking damp and annoyed, “the hell were you doing?” 

 

It’s actually a pretty funny picture, except Jack is stark naked and still covered in soap. Consensual nudity is fine. Non-consensual nudity, having just been in freezing water and not looking his best, is not fine. He covers his junk with his hands before glaring back.

 

“I was  _ bathing.”  _ He replies, petulantly. “It’s good. You should try it some time.”

 

“Bathing in unfiltered water is suicide.”

 

“Do you think I was trying to kill myself? Seriously? It’d take an hour in the sea for a normal person to go ghoul, and I’m no normal person. This thing,” Jack gestures to the Pip-Boy on his wrist, with his eyes, because his hands are otherwise occupied, “will let me know if I’m about to die of rads. Which I’m not. Cause I have a pretty thick skin.”

 

Danse blinks. Then he speaks, sounding rather unsure all of a sudden. “You… weren’t trying to commit suicide?”

 

“If I was I’d  _ shoot myself,  _ Danse. Using one of the many guns in this settlement. Going ghoul is not on my list of preferred ways to die. I’m  _ fine.  _ Well, not fine, but I’m not actively suicidal today.”

 

“Oh.” Danse looks rather sheepish. Considering how damp he is, it’s actually a pretty sad picture. “Sorry. I didn’t intend to… uh… ruin your ablutions.”

 

“You irradiated yourself to save me.” Jack chuckles, oddly touched by the whole thing. While it's currently not a problem, he really hopes Danse fucks off before his dick starts to take an interest in the proceedings. Chivalry's always been a bit of a turn-on. “My knight in shining armour. I love it.” 

 

“I will presume that is one of your Pre-War literary references, and I’ll leave you to… your… bathing.” Danse says, suddenly looking slightly uncomfortable.

 

Then, without another word, he fucks off.

 

Typical. 

 

How on earth was the man in the military for so long and yet so weird about nudity? 

 

Ridiculous.

 

Jack stands up and goes back into the sea, but bathing’s really lost its charm now that he’s got sand up in every crevice.

 

Damn Danse. 

-  
  


That night, he gets the nightmares. There’s bloodied children in his dreams, calling out to him. They want him to save them, but he pushes through them, crushes them underfoot. Shaun’s there too, somehow as old as the universe, but as young as a child, and he dies too on the path trod underfoot. 

 

He wakes to a hand on his bicep, blood on his lips, and bile forcing its way up his throat. He can’t speak except to hiss, “Out of the way,” before stumbling out to the balcony and vomiting over the railing onto the sand below.

 

Fuck.

 

He wipes his brow, sinks back to his heels and presses his head against the railing. Fuck. He feels cold and shaky all of a sudden, nausea having a goddamn party in his intestines.

 

“Better out than in.” A voice grumbles, heavy with sleep, from behind him. 

 

In all of the confusion, he’d damn near forgotten what had woken him up in the first place. Danse. Dammit. “If you’d just felt what I felt, you would not say that.”

 

“Even so.” 

 

Before Jack can even move, there’s a hand on his bare back. It’s probably supposed to be comforting, but it just feels calloused. Danse presses his thumb into the skin on his upper back on the left side, and the nausea seems to regress a bit.

 

The world’s not quite swimming around him any more. “What the fuck was that?” Jack asks, wearily, not even having the energy to actively care.

 

“Something I learned… a while ago. Doesn’t cure the problem, just makes it somewhat better. Good for flying.”

 

Good for flyin-

 

Oh. 

 

The nightmares come rushing back once again, and he gags, but he’s got nothing left to give. The Prydwen. He hadn’t wanted to cause trouble, really, he hadn’t. But the Brotherhood-

 

Fuck.

 

“What did you see?” Danse is still there, somehow a reassuring presence at his back. He’s not pressing into his back any more, but instead massaging, finding all the knots under his skin and pushing them out.

 

It feels good, but he can’t like it. He can’t.

 

“I can’t talk about it.”

 

“Can’t or won’t?”

 

Fuck’s sake, did they  _ build  _ him to be obstreperous? “Have you ever been given orders that felt incredibly wrong, but you couldn’t go against them?” 

 

Because that’s all they were in the end.

 

Orders. Orders to destroy the Prydwen, the Institute, all of the innocent souls within. 

 

He was only following orders.

 

It’s as shit an excuse as it had been in the past. 

 

“...Yes.” Danse grumbles, pressing right in on a knot as he does so.

 

Jack grunts in pain, and presses his forehead even more tightly against the railing. “Then you get it. Sometimes terrible shit happens and you have to live with the consequences.”

 

“Indeed.”

 

It is in that moment that Jack realises he should tell him. He  _ should.  _ He’s obliged to. He’s got to tell him before… whatever this is… goes any further.

 

It would be shit not to tell him.

  
  


But he doesn’t say anything.

 

Maybe he’s just being a pussy but he doesn’t want to ruin whatever this is. 


	6. Chapter 6

That night they split a dusty old bottle of cider - _Apples to Apples_ , the label screams - and look out at the sun setting behind the ruins of Nahant. The wood floor of Jack’s cabin is harsh beneath him, but sometimes that’s exactly what he needs.

It’s a cool night, but not too breezy, and there’s no trademark tang of a radiation storm on the horizon. Jack’s feeling good - a little bit horny, but really that’s been a constant thing, lately - and fairly content.

 

It’s nice.

Minus all of the secrets that Jack’s keeping from Danse.

But other than that, it’s nice.

 

“There’s a horrible settlement over there.” Jack waves a hand in the direction of Croup Manor. “Really terrible. I did my best to clean it up, and get some settlers moved in, but there’s just something weird about it. Eerie, and bizarre, like it’s got a history. You know any places like that, Danse?”

 

“I don’t… think I’ve ever felt anything like that.” Danse says, slowly, still more stoic than the situation requires.

 

“Sure you have.” Jack leans back against the railing, and puts the bottle of cider on the ground. “It’s like a… sixth sense. Like when you walk into a room and your head tells ya that staying’s a bad idea. Or when you know that doing something’s a bad idea and you don’t even know why. Feeling bad juju isn’t just a human trait.”

 

“Juju?” Danse questions, looking even more confused.

 

In all truth, Jack feels a bit sorry for him. “Yeah. Old term. Used to be French - I think??? It means feeling bad things. Bad vibes. Things like that.”

 

“Okay.”

 

His answer doesn't seem to mollify Danse, but that's not a new thing.

 

Danse picks the bottle of cider up from the ground and takes a swig. It’s generous, hearty. It’s clear he’s got something on his mind.

 

“What’s going on, Danse?” Jack hopes that it’s not too serious. The evening is cool, and nice, and he doesn’t want to ruin it with thinking too much. They’re both war-torn and broken - is it too much to ask for a moment of peace?

 

He puts the bottle of cider down, as though he’s steeling himself. Then, stiffly, “Do you find me satisfactory?”

 

Oh, God. Not the time for an ego trip. Jack sighs. “Yes, Danse, you’re great to have around. Please don’t kill yourself - I don’t need more deaths on my conscience.”

Shit. He’d nearly told him. Shit.

 

But Danse didn’t seem to hear him. “Not like that. ...Do you find me… sexually attractive?”

 

Oh. Huh. That’s where the conversation is going. Jack can’t exactly say that he minds. To see Danse so flustered - it’s actually a bit of a turn-on. “You’re well-built, bearded and tanned. If we were in my time, you’d have to beat the women off with a stick.”

 

“I don’t want women.” Danse replies, and there’s enough of a poignant pause behind it that Jack uses it as his cue to move in for a kiss.

 

Jack counts it as a miracle that Danse actually responds.

 

It’s the tang of apple that really gets him - and the memories of something more. Sure, he’s fucked plenty of people in the Commonwealth, but Danse tastes like the past, and of something metallic and a bit taboo - and it’s a pretty fucking good feeling.

 

Danse groans, hands tightening around Jack’s back, and licks his way into his mouth. His beard’s abrasive against Jack’s face, but he welcomes it, lets the rasp and the edge press away all of the moral issues he should be having about all of this.

 

It’s when Danse’s fingers start to creep down below his belt that Jack stops him. Because, this is good, this is _great,_ he could happily lie here and let Danse jack him off - but it’s _wrong._ It’s very wrong, and he can’t just let the moment pass by.

 

Damn his sense of justice. It’s so bullshit having to think about all this all of the time.

 

“Danse, stop.” Jack grips the other man by his shirt collar and pushes him back. He doesn’t go very far, because Jack’s basically straddling him at this point, but it does give him a chance to speak. “Shouldn’t we… uh… talk about this?”

 

“You kissed me.” Danse said, mouth wet and flushed, and then he’s moving again, like a man on a mission. He’s got his hands under Jack’s shirt and is pulling it over his head before Jack’s even got his wits back.

 

“I know- I know, I know. I know. Let’s call it a lapse in judgment between friends, okay? I can’t do this. It’d be _so so so so so_ morally dubious, and like, I know we live in a world that is really iffy morally, and believe me, I want to - I so want to, but - Oh, God -”

 

It comes out strangled as Danse cups his cock through his jeans. Fuck, he’s on _fire._ He’s not been so horny in _years_.

 

“If you want me to stop, I will stop.” Danse grunts, fingers ghosting over his fly. But there’s mirth in it, just a hint - and the bastard obviously knows what he’s doing.

 

Fuck.

 

This is such a bad idea.

 

“I’m going to hell I’m going to hell I’m going to hell.” Jack chants, under his breath, and drops his head to Danse’s shoulder. “God. Fuck. Just - oh God, do your worst.”

 

“Sure?” Danse rumbles beneath him, and now it’s _obvious_ he’s just doing it to be provocative. “No more pearls of wisdom to impart?”

 

“Oh, fuck you.” He says.

 

Danse just _laughs._

 

Asshole.

 

But Jack can't bring himself to stop. 


	7. Chapter 7

He’s got grazes on his thighs, he notices the next morning when he’s washing up in the sea. They sting under the salt water, and he supposes it’s penance.

It doesn’t at  _ all  _ make up for what he did the night before, but it’s a start.

 

God, Danse is going to  _ kill  _ him. Kill him, kill him, kill him. And Jack definitely deserves it.

 

Danse can never know the truth. 

 

The worst thing about the night before is that Jack felt cared for. He’s not going as far to say ‘loved’ - because love doesn’t quite come into things like that - but he’d felt cared for in a way that he’d not felt for years. Danse, despite his broodiness and weird proclivities, had been an incredibly generous lover with dexterous fingers.

 

He’d made Jack feel  _ good. _

Which is why the whole thing is so problematic. Awfully, awfully problematic. 

He needs to tell him.

(But he can’t.)

  
  


“Morning.” Danse wades into the water next to him, looking awfully content and rather pleased with himself. He’s all thick thighs, bronzed skin and really, the whole thing is making Jack feel a little bit dizzy.

 

“You’re looking… well.”

 

Well-fucked, his brain supplies, but really, Jack had not been the one doing the fucking.

 

"I am surprisingly content this morning. I wonder why that is?” His voice is husky, and annoyingly warm.

 

Wow, this whole thing  _ sucks. _

“Mmmm, no clue!” Jack replies. His voice goes very high at the ends. Well. That’s problematic. Bloody tells, all the damn time. Ugh.

 

“You have been very kind to me over the last little while.” Danse says, and lathers himself up with some seaweed soap. “I appreciate you taking me in. I was… not… in a good way.” 

 

“Likewise. Perhaps we’ve helped each other.” 

 

“Maybe so.” 

 

Jack just takes a moment to stare at Danse. Really stare at him. It's strange to see a synth seem so  _ human _ . He knows the synths are basically human, knows that all the way down to his bones, but it's still hard to shake the prejudices stamped into him during his time at the Institute. The fact that there's a distinction between synths and humans at all is very, very strange. 

Then he realises something else. "Danse, you're in the water. Aren't you terrified of rad poisoning?" 

 

"I'm not human, Jack. I don't need to worry." 

 

"Synths can be affected by rads too." 

 

"Perhaps it's your troublesome influence. Perhaps you've convinced me that I don’t need to worry about a handful of rads." And then Danse turns and smiles at him and FUCK, he's screwed. He is so, so screwed. Okay. He needs to tell him. He needs to tell him right now. 

He needs to - but then Danse wades over right through the murky water and grasps him by the hips and oh! - ... maybe it can wait.

  
  


Danse seems to lose his worries when he sleeps. His forehead straightens out and he loses the worries at the edges of his eyes. It’s a nice look. It’s a look Jack would like to see more of, but that’s something he can’t think about.

It’s odd that he’s gotten this attached so fast.

 

He’s slept with plenty of men and women and beings of all genders and varieties all across the Commonwealth, and it’s never been this bad. And, the worst thing is is that Jack  _ knows  _ Danse is an ass. He  _ knows  _ that Danse has prejudices that’ll take forever to shake, and he knows that there’s things that have been ground into him by the Brotherhood for years and years. 

But he can’t seem to shake the attachment that he’s feeling.

 

God, what a mess.

 

He smooths a hand over Danse’s bare back, feels the muscles under his skin. It’s so, so bizarre that he was built in a lab - but then again, he doubts that any real human could get muscles that well-defines, so it probably makes a fair bit of sense if he really thinks about it.

He huffs softly, moves in closer, and intertwines his feet with Danse’s. He should enjoy this while it lasts, just because he  _ knows  _ things will change once he tells Danse the truth.

 

“Well, good morning there, sunshine! Somebody’s finally gotten a tasty slice of some Brotherhood ass.” A raspy voice interrupts his reviere, and he looks up into the doorway of the cabin to see Hancock’s withered face. 

 

Fuck.    
He’s  _ screwed. _

**Author's Note:**

> ayyy lmao
> 
> hit me up on my [ blog ](http://fallinfallout.tumblr.com)


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